refuses. She isn’t sure what her resistance is, other than perhaps this ridiculous notion her mother has always lived by, that a woman’s role is to support her husband by looking after him, not by going out to work. Her part-time job in a bookstore was fine, Clothilde said. It wasn’t a proper job, just a flight of fancy, a nothing of a job.
Before the accident left her brain-damaged—moderate, but nevertheless brain-damaged—confused, disorganized, depressed in a way she had not been before, Sylvie’s mother was the quintessential Frenchwoman. Effortlessly elegant, flirtatious, charming, and coy, she knew how to wrap men around her little finger.
But there was another side to her, that only those closest saw. With her family she was sweet and loving one minute, then violently angry and critical the next. Sylvie never knew where she stood, tiptoed around her, terrified that last hug, that smothering of kisses was just about to turn into a rage-filled diatribe.
Clothilde’s wrath, her volatility, would snake around corners, slip under closed doors, shriek for Sylvie until she nervously tiptoed downstairs, backing against the wall as her mother ranted and raged over something that had nothing to do with Sylvie.
If she was lucky, her father would be home, would take her out for ice cream. By the time they returned, Clothilde would invariably be sweet and sunny, racked with guilt at her behavior, would cover Sylvie in kisses and leave her unable to trust anything at all.
Even today, despite all the evidence, she harbors an irrational hope that her mother will change. Even today, despite having a child, a husband, a grown-up life of her own, Sylvie is still scared by her mother’s volatility; her mother has more influence on her than Sylvie would ever care to admit.
Sylvie went to art school in spite of Clothilde. She got her first job as a textile designer in spite of Clothilde, and learned to avoid her mother in order to escape the criticism, for she loved her work back then.
Now, as much as she wants to work to alleviate her growing discontent, Sylvie also wants to work for the challenge, to have money of her own. Not because Mark denies her, exactly—she has access to their household account—but each time she reaches for the credit card for anything other than a necessity—a hat, some gold wire to make earrings, chocolate leather boots that she doesn’t really need, but oh, they are so very lovely—she pauses to think about what Mark will say, and usually ends up leaving them behind.
Mark assures her they are fine financially, but he has a plan to retire in five years, and they have to watch every penny. If they don’t absolutely need it, he says, leave it. She has learned to be frugal, and she longs to have money of her own again, to be able to buy those boots without thinking, or those beads, or that top.
Five years, and Mark will be home. With her. Not just her husband, but her partner as well. As hard as it is not having him here, knowing they have a goal to work toward is something she can try to live with.
Sylvie props herself up on an elbow and looks at Mark, curling his chest hair round her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about candles.”
“Candles?”
“It’s a bit of a long story, but yes. I think I’d quite like to make candles.”
Mark scoots back to make himself comfortable on the pillows, holding an arm out for Sylvie to nestle in. “We have all the time in the world. Tell me all.”
* * *
Sylvie will do almost anything she can to avoid visiting her mother, apart from on Wednesday afternoons, when the assisted living facility brings in an arts-and-crafts teacher to do a project with the inhabitants and their guests.
Clothilde is always there, always participating, always criticizing the teacher, the method, the point. She criticizes loudly and well within everyone’s earshot, as Sylvie squirms in discomfort, determining not to come back; week after week, Sylvie is
Before the accident left her brain-damaged—moderate, but nevertheless brain-damaged—confused, disorganized, depressed in a way she had not been before, Sylvie’s mother was the quintessential Frenchwoman. Effortlessly elegant, flirtatious, charming, and coy, she knew how to wrap men around her little finger.
But there was another side to her, that only those closest saw. With her family she was sweet and loving one minute, then violently angry and critical the next. Sylvie never knew where she stood, tiptoed around her, terrified that last hug, that smothering of kisses was just about to turn into a rage-filled diatribe.
Clothilde’s wrath, her volatility, would snake around corners, slip under closed doors, shriek for Sylvie until she nervously tiptoed downstairs, backing against the wall as her mother ranted and raged over something that had nothing to do with Sylvie.
If she was lucky, her father would be home, would take her out for ice cream. By the time they returned, Clothilde would invariably be sweet and sunny, racked with guilt at her behavior, would cover Sylvie in kisses and leave her unable to trust anything at all.
Even today, despite all the evidence, she harbors an irrational hope that her mother will change. Even today, despite having a child, a husband, a grown-up life of her own, Sylvie is still scared by her mother’s volatility; her mother has more influence on her than Sylvie would ever care to admit.
Sylvie went to art school in spite of Clothilde. She got her first job as a textile designer in spite of Clothilde, and learned to avoid her mother in order to escape the criticism, for she loved her work back then.
Now, as much as she wants to work to alleviate her growing discontent, Sylvie also wants to work for the challenge, to have money of her own. Not because Mark denies her, exactly—she has access to their household account—but each time she reaches for the credit card for anything other than a necessity—a hat, some gold wire to make earrings, chocolate leather boots that she doesn’t really need, but oh, they are so very lovely—she pauses to think about what Mark will say, and usually ends up leaving them behind.
Mark assures her they are fine financially, but he has a plan to retire in five years, and they have to watch every penny. If they don’t absolutely need it, he says, leave it. She has learned to be frugal, and she longs to have money of her own again, to be able to buy those boots without thinking, or those beads, or that top.
Five years, and Mark will be home. With her. Not just her husband, but her partner as well. As hard as it is not having him here, knowing they have a goal to work toward is something she can try to live with.
Sylvie props herself up on an elbow and looks at Mark, curling his chest hair round her fingers. “I’ve been thinking about candles.”
“Candles?”
“It’s a bit of a long story, but yes. I think I’d quite like to make candles.”
Mark scoots back to make himself comfortable on the pillows, holding an arm out for Sylvie to nestle in. “We have all the time in the world. Tell me all.”
* * *
Sylvie will do almost anything she can to avoid visiting her mother, apart from on Wednesday afternoons, when the assisted living facility brings in an arts-and-crafts teacher to do a project with the inhabitants and their guests.
Clothilde is always there, always participating, always criticizing the teacher, the method, the point. She criticizes loudly and well within everyone’s earshot, as Sylvie squirms in discomfort, determining not to come back; week after week, Sylvie is
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